


I'm Fine (Fuck You For Asking)

by psycho_phreak



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Physical Disability, Post-Coma Adventures, Recovery, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psycho_phreak/pseuds/psycho_phreak
Summary: “I’m fine. But I can’t use a phone one handed. Reloading a gun takes fucking forever. And I can’t feel anything where I’m all burnt up. Small shit.”“Huh.” Johnny scratched his chin, reconsidered. “Does it hurt?”“Sometimes,” you grind out but there’s no point. Johnny knows when you’re lying.It turns out that waking up after a three year coma has some shitty side effects.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	I'm Fine (Fuck You For Asking)

It begins like this.

“Yo, Boss, we need to have a serious conversation about your driving.”

Johnny tells you this one day, mid car chase, out of the blue. Well, maybe you drove on the path to beat the traffic, accidentally drove down some stairs and into the cops you were running from. Maybe you did kill like seven people in your mad dash. But apart from that, entirely out of the blue.

“Gat, I’m a little busy,” you say because you _are_ still driving, and now you’re in some pedestrianised area with a lot of stairs so it’s starting to get tricky.

“I’m just saying, you used to be bad but this is a whole ‘nother level.”

“Fuck off,” you say. There’s menace in your voice but you’re not really feeling it, and Johnny knows it.

He sighs and gives up though, and sits out the window to shoot down the remaining cops. It’s barely worth running at this point. No new cars came screaming after them, no more resources were being spent on you. You get out of the car and start seriously shooting.

And then they were dead, or playing dead successfully enough for you to get back into the smoking car and Johnny can start complaining again.

“I’m just sayin’-”

“I can’t feel my feet,” you snap.

“What?”

“I drive like shit because ever since I woke up, I can’t feel my feet.” You’re gripping the steering wheel too hard now. Johnny can see your white knuckles and hear your defensiveness and now you’re just embarrassed.

“Okay.” He’s quiet for a moment. Half of you is grateful and the other half will hit him if he starts getting all caring and shit. “Anything else not working?”

“I’m fine,” you say, too fast. You take a breath. “But I can’t use a phone one handed. Reloading a gun takes fucking forever. And I can’t feel anything where I’m all burnt up. Small shit.”

“Huh.” Johnny scratched his chin, reconsidered. He knows the terms of you being vulnerable, of you admitting any kind of weakness. You can see him strategizing, planning his next step. He’s not as dumb as he likes to pretend. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” you grind out but there’s no point. Johnny knows when you’re lying, and you can fucking _feel_ him re-evaluate you.

“You never saw a doctor.” And it isn’t a question.

“Never had the time.”

“Can you still pull a trigger?”

“Yeah but my aim’s gone to shit. Think I got weaker while I was nappin’.”

Johnny nods. “You want help?”

“ _No_.”

He doesn’t sigh. He very carefully does not sigh. You can see the sigh build up in him but he very carefully does not exhale it.

You hate this.

If this was anything else, if this was gang shit or drugs or hoes or a big fun stupid idea, Johnny would stand there and tell you exactly what he thought. He would pull no punches. He would be blunt and kind of bitchy about it and then you two would move on and shit would get done.

But now he thinks he’s going to hurt your fucking feelings and you’ll just storm off if he puts a foot wrong and now you’ve been sitting in a car for the past ten minutes while some not quite dead cop is trying to crawl to safety in front of you.

The worst part is he’s right. You are just waiting for him to push too hard or say the wrong thing and you are going to use that excuse to walk away and he will never bring it up again.

So now you’re at this stupid fucking standoff, trying to figure out the line between letting your best friend know anything at all about you and maintaining the illusion that you’re invincible.

You’re sick of it.

You stand up, get out of the car, walk away. C’mon Boss, isn’t this what you’re good at? Running away before you have to face an actual consequence?

You kick that cop on your way past. See if the feeling registers in your idiot nonfunctional brain yet. You only get as far as the other side of the car.

“How about you drive for a bit,” you say. This is a good compromise, you think. Maybe Johnny thinks so too. He gets out of the car anyway.

And then he walks away. Goddamnit. That was supposed to be your move.

This is what happens when you’re yourself Boss. You pushed too hard or put your stupid unfeeling fucking foot wrong and now you’re losing someone else.

Fuck it. You don’t need him.

But Gat _knows_ you. He remembers you in the first days of the Saints, back when you were too terrified to open your mouth. He knows where you grew up and he was there that day your dad walked past you and he didn’t recognise you but you still had nightmares for a week and Johnny _always_ answered the phone when you called him at 2am, panicked or drunk.

Maybe you don’t need him. But you don’t want to find that out today.

“Okay fine,” you say but not too loudly because honestly, fuck him.

He stops though. Doesn’t turn around because he’s a dramatic bitch like that.

“I maybe, possibly, should get help,” you say and you _hate_ how weak your voice sounds.

All he does is turn around and behind his glasses you can see he has one eyebrow raised, the _'i_ _s that the best you can do Boss’_ look that you explicitly banned.

“Maybe I could see a doctor,” you say, quieter again. You would love to scowl but your new face doesn’t obey you like your old one did and you’re sure all of your stupid fucking _feelings_ are painted across it.

But he comes back. He always comes back and for a second you wondered how it was ever in question. He stands in front of you, an unyielding wall of mass and muscle.

“I’m driving,” he says eventually.

The car conveniently catches fire behind you.

“Okay,” you say.

***

Gat shows up to your hospital appointment. You didn’t ask him to come – you didn’t even tell him you were going.

“Fuck off,” you tell him. “I’ve got this.”

He smirks and cleans his nails with a knife and you fucking hate him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello so I am just terrible at the game whenever I replay and I blame this for it!!!!! It can't be easy waking up from a coma and then just going about your life!!!!!! You would have issues! Serious medical issues! Anyway I can't drive or shoot let's blame the coma.  
> I have planned more but we'll see how things go


End file.
